Revenge Looks Good On You
by Optimistically-Hopeless
Summary: After getting a call from America's house, England rushes over to help, only to find something he never could have prepared himself for. How will he deal with it? Will he lose himself in the process? M for reference to rape, disturbing images and angst.
1. Chapter 1

So, kind of a little add-on to **Baby It's Cold Outside**… just because some people have told me that they want to see Iggy go beat the crap out of our favorite little commie Russia. So, this story's rated M for references to rape and disturbing imagery. Also, it's one of the darker pieces I've written. It took me a long time to write it just because I kept on depressing myself. XD

Also, just plain disturbing in some parts I think. I really surprised (scared) myself with this one. So, you've been warned!

So, I hope you like it! :D Please review!

x-x-x-x-x

The phone rang, waking England up from his sleep. At first, he tried to bury his face deeper into his pillows, hoping to muffle out the obnoxious ringing. However, this did nothing to help but begin to asphyxiate him. So, getting ready to start yelling at whoever was ringing him up this late, he angrily got out of his warm bed. Drearily he looked at his clock, growling to see that it was a little after two in the morning. Who in God's name had to call him so damn early in the morning on a _weekend_? Finally shuffling to the shelf his phone was placed on, England glanced at the caller ID. And nearly went to grab a hammer.

Why the hell was America calling him? How did the damn idiot always forget about time zones? What was late evening for him was early morning in the dead of night for England. Furious, England picked up the phone. "Dammit, America!" he shouted into the receiver. "How many fucking times do I have to tell you—?"

"Oh, please keep your language down, England."

England felt himself go cold at hearing the voice, his eyes widening in shock. What the hell was this? "R-Russia?" he muttered, automatically looking for a weapon on instinct even though he was hundreds of miles away.

"Hello, England," Russia said sweetly, his voice sounding too innocent to mean anything good. "How are you doing?"

"Stop toying with me," England growled, gripping the phone much harder than was necessary. "What the hell are you doing at America's house?"

Russia chuckled, sending a shiver down England's spine. "I'm just dropping him off is all. He was tired from… playing with me. I don't think the drugs settled too well with his system though."

For a moment, England couldn't say anything. His eyes stared off blankly, his mind trying to take in what he had just heard. Drugs. Russia had drugged America. "What did you do to him," England whispered, cursing himself for how weak his voice was.

"Ha, oh, I did plenty," Russia replied with a giggle. "I found out so much too! Did you know that you can shove a pipe a little over a foot into someone before they pass out from the pain? Too bad it got all covered in his blood though—it will take me quite a while to clean it. Oh, and I found out that he can take in three dildos before his muscles finally rip apart! Hah, and after that, I could fit in—"

"_Shut up!_" England roared, gripping his head as he felt like he was about to throw up. "Shut up, shut your damn mouth!"

Russia laughed coldly. "That's what I told America to do when he wouldn't stop screaming for help."

Another horrible chill wracked through England's body, his whole being going numb. Not even in his worst nightmares had England ever imagined America begging for help. He just couldn't picture it in his head—it was impossible. "Stop it."

"He kept on screaming for help—it was rather amusing," Russia taunted, his voice sounding childlike; almost angelic. "He liked to scream your name a lot. Always screaming for you to help him."

"Stop."

"But you never came. He kept yelling and screaming for you, but you never came to save him."

Tears England didn't know he'd been holding back fell from his eyes, gripping the phone ever tighter. "S-stop it!"

"But you want to know what my favorite part was?" Russia whispered, the demonic smile on his face audible in his voice. "My favorite was when he finally started screaming _my_ name. Screaming, 'Please, Ivan, I'll do anything, please Ivan, just let me go!' Heh, and he was willing to do anything, he really was. Too bad he forgets that I don't my keep promises."

No words came to England. He stood there staring at the wall, feeling tears roll down his face. He had never trusted Russia, never even liked him. But now, now all he wanted to do was take a gun point blank and shoot his brains out across the wall. "For your sake," England said into the phone, his voice deathly calm, "America better be alive when I get there."

Russia gave a little chuckle, sending more anger coursing through England's veins. "He's very well alive, do not worry England," he said. "Though, I can't say he wants to be. For all I know, he could commit suicide after I leave. I wouldn't be surprised—he was in an amazing amount of pain."

"Russia," England murmured. "I suggest you get your affairs in order. Because next time I see you, I'm going to rip out your entrails and force you to eat them. Raw."

The other line went silent for a moment, almost as if Russia seemed cautious. However, Russia gave a laugh. "I'd love to see you try, _suka_." With that, there was a _click_ and the line went dead.

x-x-x-x-x

Russia smiled happily as he turned from the phone, content with how distressed England must be now. All of the other countries were so easy to toy with—they all felt close to other countries, hated to see their friends hurt. But Russia didn't have that. All he had had his whole life was hatred and scorn and pain and betrayal. He had no one to love, no one to feel close to or protective of. Some days he felt lonely and lost in the world because of this. But he could always fix that by entertaining himself with one of the Baltic States. But even they got boring after a while. Russia already knew all of their limits, all of their cries of pain. They were so old and boring and _predictable_. But listening to new screams, seeing new blood, watching unfamiliar faces contort in pain—it just made him shiver with pleasure thinking about it.

Especially if the country being tortured was America. How he hated him, how had had always wanted to see him crying and begging for mercy, see him covered in his own blood, see his body writhing beneath him. It was a pity that he had had to wash the American up though, seeing as he didn't want to look suspicious dragging an unconscious blood-covered body on to his private plane. America looked so dull now, lying crumpled on his own bed, having not moved even an inch from where Russia had left him. Russia smiled darkly at him, pushing down on his side where he knew his ribs were fractured if not broken as he leaned over to whisper in his ear. His smile grew wider as he heard America whimper beneath him, his muscles weakly tensing at his touch. "I know you're awake," he whispered, pushing down harder on his damaged ribs. "I've had so much fun for the past day and a half. I'm glad I was able to convince you to come. I'm going to leave now though." He lifted his head to look America in the face. He could tell that America was peering at him through his eyelashes, trying to feign unconsciousness. "But before I go," Russia said sweetly, roughly grabbing him by the chin, "I need a kiss."

America finally opened his eyes, glaring at the cold country with an amazing amount of hatred. Even Russia had trouble remembering the last time such hatred had been directed at him. "When hell freezes over, bastard."

Russia gripped his chin harder, smiling as he saw pain flash across America's face—it sure would be fun to break his jaw in half. "Hell has been frozen over for a long time, _suka_. It's where I live." Forcing his mouth open, Russia shoved his tongue inside, doing everything he could to try to make America choke on him. Russia half-expected a struggle, but actually laughed as he realized that America just lied there and took it. He shoved down harder on the broken country's ribs, reveling in the cry of pain he got in return as one finally snapped.

Pain was such a beautiful sound.

x-x-x-x-x

It took far too long for England to finally arrive in the United States. He had taken a private plane to the country, but no one had been awake or able to get to a plane until over an hour had passed after Russia's call. That whole hour, England had been pacing frantically, trying to decide whether to go to America or Russia first. He wanted desperately to tear Russia apart piece by piece, to torture him, to do all kinds of torture he had learned during his years of pirating. But as he thought of all the pain that Russia had told him he'd put America through, he knew he had to see America first. Russia was right about one thing—with all of the trauma he had been through in such a short amount of time, he was sure suicide was looking like a very good option to America at the moment. Finally when someone had arrived that could take him, they left immediately, England only able to say, "It's urgent, hurry," over and over again. After a painful six hours of flying, he had finally made it to the country, the airport miraculously only about ten minutes from America's home. After breaking a few speeding laws—and almost getting in an accident for forgetting to drive on the right side of the road in America—England finally arrived at the house. Even though he had done everything he could to get here as soon as possible, he was extremely nervous about entering the house. He didn't know what to expect, and it terrified him. What if America was dead? What if Russia was still here and was planning on ambushing him? What if, when he found America, he couldn't even recognize him from what Russia did to him?

Feeling sick with anxiety, England forced himself to leave the car and walk towards the front door. Each step he took sent him farther and farther into panic. What if? What if? What if? But he couldn't handle asking himself this anymore. He had to know. Not what if, but what _is_.

Summoning all of the strength he had, he pulled out his spare key to America's house, turned the lock, and entered the house.

Silence.

Never before had England entered America's house and only heard the sound of silence. There was always music or television on in the background—it was _never_ quiet. Slowly, England placed his hand on his hip, finding the holster his gun was placed in. His green eyes surveyed his surroundings carefully, looking for any sign of Russia. He was not going to come this far just to be killed by Russia—no, he wasn't going to go down that easily.

After he had carefully looked over everything, England cautiously stepped forward, his eyes constantly moving, trying to catch sight of anything suspicious. So far, nothing looked like it was going to jump out and try to kill him. He slowly began to relax, feeling no danger or threat in the house.

Until something clicked in the room next to him. Something that clicked just like bullets being loaded into a gun.

Not waiting to be ambushed, England kicked the door aside, gun out and cocked in an instant, pointing directly at—

England froze, dropping his gun to the floor as his eyes widened in shock. Just at the other side of the door, lying on the floor with huge, fear-filled eyes, was America. He had a gun in hand, but he highly doubted he could use it, seeing as he couldn't even get off the ground. For a moment, the two stared at each other, no words able to form. England was just glad that America wasn't a pile of diced human by now—he had been trying to prepare himself for that possibility. After what felt like days, England was finally able to remember how to work his voice. "A…America?"

America stayed still, not removing his eyes from where England stood. His eyes were still huge, still terrified. Slowly, England took a step forward, keeping his eyes on America's face, trying to figure out his reaction. There didn't seem to be any panic at him moving, so England carefully took another step towards him. Then another. And another. Everything was going just fine, and America seemed calm. Once he was close enough, he fell to his knees next to him, the stress finally getting to him. His throat caught as tears wanted to escape him, but he held them back—he had to stay calm. "America," he said again slowly. "America, where are you hurt?"

America stared at him, not saying a word. England was getting fearful from the look on his face, horrified that America might have gotten traumatized enough that he was suffering from amnesia. Carefully, he reached a hand out to touch him.

As soon as his hand reached out, he felt the cold metal of the gun pressed against his forehead. He blinked, startled by just how _fast_ the gun had gotten there—one moment, it was placed against the ground in America's hand; the next, it was against his head. His hand paused, trying to figure out what was going on in America's head. Did he know who he was? Did he know the difference between him and Russia? Did he think that everyone was like Russia now? What was happening to him?

"Do," America rasped, his blue eyes wide and feral. "Not. Touch. Me."

England stared at him, shocked by his expression—hate-filled, spiteful, suspicious. None of it was America. None of this was him. Slowly, England retracted his hand, placing it on his lap. "Okay," he said quietly, keeping his eyes on America, trying to remain calm. He stayed still, not knowing whether the revolver was cocked or not. If it was, all America had to do was twitch his finger and his brains would be splattered against the wall behind him. "Sorry."

America continued to stare at him, not lowering the gun. The top half of his body was propped up by his elbow. Even though it was a slight angle, America looked extremely pained by it, the metal lightly quivering against his head. Even though he had a calm expression on his face, England felt his heart rate increase drastically. Was he going to die here? He had come in thinking that his main concern was going to be Russia; never had he thought that it was going to be _America_ trying to kill him. "America?" England said in the softest voice he had. "Do you… know who I am?"

Blue eyes continued to stare fiercely into his green ones, not moving away once. "England," he answered, pulling the hammer of the revolver back with his thumb. England felt a jolt shoot down his spine, his eyes widening. Why was America cocking it? What was he doing?

"Amer—"

"Shut up," America hissed, pressing the gun harder against England's forehead, pushing his head back. "Don't talk. Just shut up and listen for once."

England had no idea why he was so angry with _him_; him, the one who had rushed across the Atlantic Ocean to make sure he was still alive. But America was the one with the gun, so he had no choice but to listen.

"Do you know how long I _waited_?" America snarled, staring directly into his eyes. "How long I was tortured? How long I was _fucked_? Do you?"

No words could leave England's throat. He'd never seen America in so much pain. Mutely, he lightly shook his head.

"Thirty-nine hours," America growled. "That's how long I was stuck in that hell hole. That's how long he cut me, how long he burned me, how long he shoved things inside of me, how long he kept injecting me with drugs, how long he hit me, slapped me, cussed at me, called me a whore." The tip of the gun was shaking against England's forehead, making him frightened. If America just happened to twitch the wrong muscle, he'd be dead. "That's how long I waited for you, England. How long I waited for you to come! How long I waited for you to come and stop it!"

England stared at him, trying to figure out what he was saying. He'd been waiting for him? How was he supposed to know what had been going? There was no way that he could have _just known_. "How was I supposed to know?" England murmured, trying to keep his voice even, trying to hide the hurt and the anger he felt.

America returned his stare, looking dumbfounded. "What?" America paused, his hand shaking more than before. "Check your phone." England stared at him and was about to ask why the hell it was important when America shoved the gun harder against his forehead. "_Check it now!"_

Slowly, England reached into his pocket, pulling out his mobile phone. He removed his eyes from America's long enough to press the power button. "It's turning on," he warned so America wouldn't jump for the noise and accidently shoot him. The phone buzzed as it powered up, its screen glowing. As it finally got to the menu screen, a message popped up. "+1 New Voice Message" Carefully, England pressed a few buttons, opening the mailbox. He put the phone to his ear as he listened to the message.

"_Hah… E-England?"_ the message started, sending chills through England. It was America's voice. He sounded exhausted and utterly terrified. _"England, please, pick up. England…"_ He let out a frustrated growl, the air hissing as it went past the receiver. _"England, dammit, pick up! Urgh, God dammit… Listen, please… I… I'm at Russia's. You need to come now. He… He's… Oh God, England, you were right, I shouldn't have trusted him… Eng…. England, he's raping me."_ His whole body went cold, feeling like all the blood and life was draining away from him. America sounded so desperate, so helpless…. Because he was. America had desperately needed his help, and he hadn't even taken the time to check his messages to find his plea. He could have helped. He could have…

"_Please, England, please, he—"_ His voice was cut off by the sound of a door opening, utter silence the only sound for several seconds. England nearly dropped the phone as he heard America start screaming, his hand fumbling to keep a hold of it. "_England_!" America shrieked, thumps and bangs being heard in the background. "_England! Help me! Please! Engl—_" America's voice was suddenly silenced with a loud bang, making England's chest tense. What just happened? What was going on?

Then _he_ spoke.

"_Hello, England_," Russia's sweet voice greeted, sounding like he had just been out picking flowers from how innocent he pretended to be. "_I'm sorry to have my little slut call you like this. I'll make sure he gets the proper punishment._" He chuckled, making England murderous with rage. "_Do svedanya_," he said sweetly as the message finally ended with a click.

Not able to work his fingers right anymore, the phone slid out of his hand and hit the floor. Nothing could have prepared him for this. Why couldn't he have turned on his phone? Why couldn't he have checked his messages? Why couldn't he have done something, _anything_, differently? Why did he always have to make all of these wrong decisions that hurt people so much? The dam finally broke as tears freely flowed down his face. "America," he whispered, not daring to look him in the eye—he didn't deserve to look anyone in the eye ever again. "Oh God. America. I…"

"Don't you dare say you're sorry."

England forced himself to look up, surprised by America's words. Wasn't that what America wanted? Didn't he want England to feel sorry for what he didn't do? "Why?" he asked weakly. "Why not?"

"Because being sorry won't change anything," America murmured darkly. The simple statement felt like a knife in the stomach. "I don't care how sorry are for being an idiot who can't do anything right. I don't care. It's not going to stop be from getting raped. It's not going to stop anything." America finally lowered the gun, never letting his eyes leave England. "You can't change anything now. It's done."

It felt like something broke inside England. It was done. He couldn't do anything to change what had happened. America had been raped over and over again, and he had done nothing to stop it. He would have broken down sobbing if it weren't for him being completely numb inside and out. It was done. He couldn't do anything to fix this.

There was only one thing that he could do now.

Slowly, England stood up, not feeling his legs beneath him. "You need a doctor," he said quietly, simply, emotionlessly "You're hurt. You need a doctor."

"Then call one," America hissed.

"No time," he said. He kicked his phone over to America, making it run into his hand. "Call. I have to leave. I have a promise to keep." America said nothing as he continued to lie on the ground, a look of hate and utter disdain on his face. There was nothing England could do about this now—he'd have to fix it later. That is, if any of this could ever be fixed.

Without another word, England turned and exited the room, picking back up his gun from earlier. A plan already forming in his head, he slipped the gun back into its holster.

He would need it to keep his promise with Russia.

x-x-x-x-x

So… I meant for this story to be all "America, I love you!" and hurt/comfort… not angstedy-angst-angst with a side of angst… -sigh- Oh well… I still like it. Also, thought it was going to be a oneshot, but I'll add another chapter… where England pays a little visit to Russia's house.

Anyways, please review! :)


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks for the reviews, favorites and alerts everyone! Sorry for the delay on this chapter. When I first started writing this, I thought it was going to be a hurt/comfort thing… not… this. XD That and school and life… oh, life's been holding some interesting things for me lately. XD So, anyways, I'm glad that you guys like it so far! Huge relief for me! :D

So, warnings… Um… blood. And more disturbing images. Woot! XD And just a warning for my writing… I haven't written a fight scene for a long time… so I'm not sure how well I did. I hope you guys like it, or can at least deal with it if it isn't the best… XD

Also, a quick "Thank you!" to **PJTL156** for reading this over for me! I was feeling a little less than confident about this, but after she told me that the fight scene was good so far, I was able to begin writing like crazy! So you have her to thank too! :D Plus she's a good writer, so go check her out as a favor to me and her! :D

Also, for translations, just use Google Translate… I was going to put them at the end, but… there are just too freakin' many. XD

So, anyways, I hope you like it! Please review!

x-x-x-x-x

Screams were still echoing through his mind as Russia quietly hummed to himself, his violet eyes closed as he thought back through his special time spent with America. Oh, how much fun it had been! He smiled as he thought of how he wanted to do it all again. He thought back to how America had just given in, too weak to fight any longer. He had loved seeing America hurt, weak, helpless, defeated both physically and mentally. It was a feeling he wished he could experience every day.

However, his little tune was interrupted as there was a click, followed by something metal pushing against the back of his head. Russia wasn't nervous at all—surprised, but not nervous. The smile on his face grew. "_Privet,_ England," he greeted nonchalantly, twining his fingers together calmly. "I'm impressed. How did you get in so quickly and quietly?"

"It's called the SIS, bitch," England hissed, nudging the gun harder against the back of his head. "Get up. Now."

Russia let out a tiny laugh. "Surely you know it's rude to tell someone what to do in their own house. Not even I—"

"I said get up, you worthless piece of shit."

Russia just smirked as he leisurely complied, towering over the smaller nation. He still felt the gun pressed against the back of his head as he rose, but it didn't bother him too much—it was more of an annoyance than anything else.

"You think you can scare me?" Russia taunted, slipping his hand beneath his coat carefully as to not draw the Englishman's attention.

"I don't need to scare you to kill you," England murmured darkly. "Though the image of you scared does sound—"

However, Russia never heard just what England thought of the matter as he swung around and smashed his pipe into England's face. Obviously England hadn't been expecting him to act so quickly as his head snapped to the side from the hit, the force behind it sending him stumbling over a few steps. Russia smirked as he saw the blood dribble from the side of his mouth. Before England was anywhere near regaining his composure, Russia slammed him against the wall behind him, shoving his metal pipe hard against his throat.

"I had the KGB, _suka_," he hummed as he pressed the pipe harder against his wind pipe. A few pathetic little squeaks escaped his constrained throat, his eyes wide as he tried to pry the pipe from his throat. Russia continued to just smile at his weak attempts, watching as his face only got more desperate. In the euphoria of watching the life slowly begin to drain from his green eyes, Russia felt something press against his shoulder. Before he could do anything about it, an ear-splitting bang was heard as England fired his gun.

"_Yebet_!" Russia hissed as he lurched back, dropping the pipe from England throat as he gripped his bleeding shoulder. England gasped for air, having a coughing fit as air was finally able to enter his lungs. The two stood apart, both trying to recover from the previous offenses. Russia stared at the smaller country, watching the bruise across his neck already beginning to form.

"This isn't going to be a fair fight," England wheezed, wiping the blood away from Russia's previous blow. "Is it?"

Russia just smirked, feeling the blood leak between his fingers. "Were you expecting it to be?"

England just glared back at him as he pulled the hammer of his gun back, cocking it for another shot. "I'd be a fool to expect something decent from a bastard like you."

"You're right." In a flash of movement, Russia aimed a kick at England's legs to knock them out from under him. England reacted slightly slower, Russia able to knick his leg, sending sharp pain from the hit. Quickly, Russia picked back up his pipe, feeling it slip slightly in his bloody hand. Gun in hand, England lunged toward him, looking for a point blank shot. This was a bad idea on his part however as Russia swing his pipe down on his hand, making the smaller nation hiss in pain as he lost hold of the weapon. Russia gave an evil smirk as he swung the pipe sideways with such force it would without a doubt shatter the Brit's skull. But to his displeasure, it just hissed through the air as England ducked down without a moment to spare, the pipe grazing his fair hair. Seeing as he was ducked, England quickly grabbed back up his gun and fired it into the closest thing to him at the moment—Russia's kneecap.

"_Yeblya dermo!_" Russia screeched as he tumbled over, no longer able to support himself on a leg with a shattered kneecap. But before he fell, he swung his pipe down on the crown of England head. Stars danced in the smaller nation's vision, the whole room spinning and everything hurting. Something large and extremely heavy fell on him, sending the air rushing out of his lungs. Before he was able to return any air to his neglected lungs, Russia's strong hand clasped itself around his throat. "Little bitch," he hissed at him, England's vision clearing enough to see the Russian glaring down fiercely at him. "You'll pay for that."

England squeezed his hand around the gun, but felt his stomach drop as his hand closed on nothing. He frantically looked around to try to locate it, only to find it a meter away and out of reach. Desperately, he tried to stretch his arm, trying to reach it so he could kill the Russian bastard. However, Russia easily saw this, grabbing his arm roughly and pulling it back hard enough to nearly rip his arm muscles in two.

"What, little _podsolnechnik?_" Russia taunted, shoving his hand harder against England's throat, making a horrible squeak escape him. "You still upset about your little Alfred?" A horrible chill went through England, quickly replaced with a fiery hatred that rivaled even the flames of Hell. "Are you still sorry you couldn't help him when he needed you the most?"

Without a second thought, England shoved a finger inside of Russia's bullet wound in his shoulder and pulled up. A shout of pain escaped the Russian, his purple eyes furious as he clenched his hands tighter around England's windpipe. The harder Russia squeezed, the harder England pulled up. England just glared at him, his vision going blurry. He gave him a glare that said 'I'm not going to stop unless you do.' To prove his point further, he curled his finger, embedding it even farther into his bloody flesh.

"_Dermo_!" Russia yelled, releasing England's throat to wrench his hand away from his wound. Once his throat was free, England gasped to fill his lungs back with air as he tugged his finger out of Russia's wound himself, blood coating his finger and fresh blood dribbling from the now bigger wound. He lurched over to try to grab his gun, his fingers mere centimeters from the handle. Right before he was able to grab it, a pathetic cry escaped him as a knee rammed into his lower back. "I'm going to kill you, stupid bitch," Russia hissed, digging his knee farther into his back.

Trying not to let out another cry of pain, England tried to stretch his arm out farther, trying desperately to grab the gun. His fingers just grazed it as he watched Russia's fingers curl around it. "You looking for this, _suka_?"

_Shit._

The gun was thrown to the side, hitting the floor with a loud clatter. Before England could try any further to escape, he felt his wrists pinned down to the floor by Russia's firm hands. His horribly cold breath fell on his ear, sending a shiver down his back. "I don't want to kill you yet," he hummed, brushing his lips against the shell of England's ear. "_Nyet_, I want to see you in pain before you die."

"The feeling is mutual," England hissed with a sneer. He wasn't going to show fear in front of the damn Russian.

"Your little American fought so much against me." England froze, his body going cold. Russia had him pinned to the ground, forcing him to listen to this shit? England would have rather gotten shot than have to listen to this. "He kept on yelling and screaming and telling me to stop. But I didn't. No. I was amazed by how much he was able to endure. It wasn't until after… hmm, how many times had I raped him by then? Wow… maybe four, five times? By at least the fifth time, he finally stopped trying to get away. Oh, now I remember why he stopped trying to get away! That was after I had ripped apart his rectal muscles! He couldn't bear to walk. He couldn't even sit!"

Rage was boiling up in England, making him feel like he was about to explode. He still felt Russia's chilling breath on his ear, so he did the only thing he could think of. He threw his head back as hard as he could, sending stars through his head as he felt something—probably Russia's nose—snap on impact. The Russian gave a howl of pain, startled enough to loosen his grip ever so slightly on England's wrists. This gave England the much needed opportunity to wrench his wrists free, sending his elbow flying back behind him into Russia's stomach, causing the breath to rush out of his chest. England desperately scurried away, forcing himself up on his knees as he pathetically crawled to where the gun laid on the floor. He let out a cry of exertion as he lunged forward, curling his fingers around the handle.

Spinning around so fast that it made his vision spin, England aimed the gun directly at Russia's head. Russia's violet eyes widened ever so slightly, a small look of surprise on his face. Most of his face was obscured by his hand that was staunching the blood flowing from his nose. He glared at England, an angry smirk in his eyes. "Are you going to shoot me, _malo Anglii_?" he said, his voice muffled.

"I've already shot you once, bastard," England hissed, pulling back the hammer of the gun. "I can very well do it again without a problem."

"You know that's not what I mean." Russia wiped his hand across his face, leaving smears of blood all over his face. "You used to be a pirate. But you've grown soft over the years. Do you really have the ability to kill another person?"

"You're not human," England growled, slowly steadying himself as he slowly rose back to his feet. All the while, he kept his gun on a constant aim between his violet eyes. "You're a monster. You don't deserve to live."

Another trail of blood fell from his nose, but Russia didn't seem to care anymore. His tongue wiped it away as he smiled wide. "You know, England," he purred, "I like how you look when you're this enraged. It suits you. Revenge looks good on you."

England glared at him, thoughts running through his head. Russia had put America through something worse than hell. He had done unimaginable things to him and was smiling about it. This damn monstrosity didn't deserve to live. He deserved to be shot, deserved to be killed. There was no redeeming quality about him that made him deserving to live a peaceful happy life.

But if he killed him, wouldn't he be placing himself on the same level as him?

England had killed plenty of people before. He had lived for several centuries, millennia even, and had watched people be tortured to death, had invented many methods of the torture people had died from, had been known and despised worldwide for his ruthlessness and cruelty. If someone had gotten in his way, he had eliminated them. He didn't put up with anyone who tried to block his path. If they were in his way, they were killed. But after his piracy days had ended and he and America had become close, he had become softer, more docile.

His hand wavered as he stared at the demonic Russian before him. Could he really bring himself to kill him?

"Go on," Russia taunted, a manic smile on his face. "Shoot. Coward."

No. England couldn't bring himself to kill him. He couldn't end his life.

No. He'd do something more befitting for him.

Russia's eyes widened as the shot went off, England's bullet burying itself in his back. England glared down at him as he watched the wound begin to blossom blood in the fabric around it. A huge variety of emotions flashed across the Russian's face all at once. Shock, anger, sadness—_fear_. That fear told England that he had done what he had intended to do.

Some sadistic pleasure bubbled up in the pit of England's stomach as he smirked. "Why don't you get up?" England hissed, glaring down at him. "Come on, little Russia. You gonna get up and attack me?"

Russia glared up at him, his purple eyes dark with hatred. "You damn capitalist pig."

"What, little commie?" England growled, his smirk growing. "Something wrong with your legs?"

"_Zakroĭ rot proklyatyĭ!"_ Russia yelled, his face full of anger and hatred.

England sneered down at him, putting his gun back in its holster. "As a country, the shot won't kill you. But even for countries, spines don't heal that easily. You probably will never have use of your legs again." With a final look of hatred, he turned to face the door. "Killing you would be too merciful now. You deserve to live in suffering like this."

As he limped away, he felt Russia's hateful glare boring into him. "You realize that I don't need legs to kill you."

England turned his head to look back at him, giving a dark chuckle. "But they sure as hell do help, now don't they?"

Russia stared at him, a look of actual disgust on his face. "This is what I hate about you capitalist countries," he hissed, slowly balancing himself up on his elbows. "You always talk about how free and good and _pure_ you are. You do everything to convince the world that you're better and that you're more civilized that everyone else. But every time you are in a war, every time someone doesn't agree with you, you become one of the biggest hypocrites." His glare wavered ever so slightly as tears gathered in his eyes. "You say you are the freest of nations, but you only stay free by enslaving another country. You say that you are all that is good in the world, but as soon as someone disagrees, they are silenced and discredited and gotten rid of." The strength seemed to leave his body as Russia's arms gave out and he fell back down to the floor. He tilted his head just enough to glare spitefully at England, tears streaking down his dirty face. "England. You are no better than me."

Lies. All of it was lies. England meant to yell at the Russian, to tell him he was wrong, to tell him that nothing he said or believed was right. But as he looked down at him and was finally hit with the reality of what he was, of what he had done, he was silenced. He looked down at the blood on his hands, and watched as they began to shake.

He was a monster too.

x-x-x-x-x

_America,_

_There are no words to describe how sorry I am that I was not able to help you. I know that my apologies won't help you any, but I still needed to say them. I apologize from the very depths of my accursed soul._

_I also know that what I did to Russia will not help you recover. As I've thought about it, I've come to a realization. I went there under the assumption that I was doing it for you; that I was trying to avenge you and make him pay for all he had done to you. But once it was finished, once I looked at the blood I was covered in, I realized why the true reason as to why I done this. I had done this not for you, but for me. I did this selfishly to try to prove myself that there was something I could do to help. But now that it's over, I realize that all of it was done to help myself. For that, I sincerely apologize._

_I understand if you are never able to forgive me. I was not there when you desperately needed me. I'm sure that if I had been in your place, I would never forgive you. I also understand if you never want to talk to me again. I just want you to know that, if you need me to leave you be, I'll do so. If you told me to go and shoot myself, I'd do it. Anything to show you how sorry I am._

_America. Dear Alfred. I'm so sorry._

_~~Arthur Kirkland_

America read the note over again, his blue eyes skimming over the words. England had been right. It was hard for him to forgive England for what he hadn't done. He still felt horrible, still felt dirty and used. His physical wounds always healed incredibly fast for a country, but the emotional and mental wounds left would never leave him. He knew that he would be lucky if he ever felt better at any point in the future. He knew for an absolute certainty that he would never be okay again.

As he thought back to when he last saw England, part of him was terrified. He had never even thought he could have done something like that. England was one of his greatest friends. But he had been so angry, so hurt, so scared—he was grateful he hadn't simply killed him. He wasn't sure how he would have dealt with losing his closest friend.

Not knowing what else to do, America forced himself to get out of bed, cringing as his body complained, still not totally healed from what had been done to him. Stumbling, he pulled out a piece of paper from his desk, being ginger with his movements. He then sat down with a grimace and grabbed a pen.

_Iggy __Arth__ England,_

_I don't need your pity. It won't_

_It's fine. It's not like there's an__ything you can do about it now, right?_

_If you're so sorry, why don't you want to talk to me in pers_

_I think I forgive you. But it still hurts. There's nothing that can be done that'll fix_

_I miss you Goddammit. Where are you? Why won't you some see me? What the hell do you think you're_

Why the hell was this so damn hard? He knew England better than anyone, trusted him more than anything. Why was it becoming so difficult just to write to him? Taking a deep breath to try and calm himself, he scribbled out all of the previous messages and tried one last time.

_Thank you. Come visit soon, 'kay Art? Miss you._

_-Al_

He looked over the letter and cringed as he looked over all of the huge amount of the paper covered in scribble. As he stared at it, he once again realized how far he was from being okay. He knew he wouldn't be okay again for a long time. As he looked over the short message, he gave a sigh as he added more on to it.

_PS_

_I need you, okay? Please. Please come. I'm sorry for everything. I miss you, Artie._

America wasn't going to be okay for a long time. But he knew that the only thing that would ever help him feel any better was having England by his side. Even if he lost everything else, if he had England next to him, everything would be all right.

_I love you. _With that final note, America folded the letter.

x-x-x-x-x

Four days passed after America sent the letter through the mail. He hadn't gotten his hopes up too high, knowing that England was stubborn and that he might just be too pained to see America. After what had happened, after how close he had come to killing him, America wouldn't blame him. He wouldn't blame him at all.

But after four, long, lonely, painful days, America suddenly found England in his house. He had obviously been running, his breath coming in large heaves. America was worried and wondering what was wrong, what had happened to make him rush to his house like this—until he saw the letter in his hand. For a fraction of a second, America was worried that he had said something wrong in the letter, worried that he had made everything worse by something he had said. But just as he was about to apologize for everything, he found England's arms wrapped around him tightly, England's face pushed against his shoulder.

"Alfred," England sobbed, holding him closer as his body shook. "I'm so sorry. Alfred, please, I'm so, so sorry."

America stood stiff, dazed by England's embrace. He stood still for a few moments, unsure of how to react to the situation. Finally, he wrapped his arms around England as his legs gave out, the two of them falling to the floor, being held up only by the other's embrace.

"Arthur, I'm sorry," America murmured into his hair, tears falling down his face. "I'm sorry for everything. Please. Please don't leave me."

England pulled his face up to look America straight in the eye. "Never," he said. "I'll never leave you. I promise you, Alfred. I promise."

The two sat there, holding each other close as apologies were said and promises made. As they sat there, America began to feel part of him that had been shredded apart being to come back together. He was nowhere near fixed, nowhere near back to being normal and happy.

But now, the healing had finally begun.

x-x-x-x-x

D': Bittersweet ending… I hope you guys liked it. I wasn't quite sure how I wanted to end it, but this seemed like a good way to tie it all up.

I hope you enjoyed it! Please review! :)


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